


stardrawn creatures

by fragrant



Category: Moominvalley (Cartoon 2019), Mumintroll | Moomins Series - Tove Jansson, 楽しいムーミン一家 | Moomin (Anime 1990)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Character Study, Introspection, M/M, Magical Elements, starlight as major plot point
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-18
Updated: 2019-05-18
Packaged: 2020-03-07 13:15:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,114
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18873931
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fragrant/pseuds/fragrant
Summary: The first day of spring’s but a fortnight away, and Snufkin’s still got a long way to travel the road(home)to Moominvalley. He can’t help the thrum of excitement, more so than usual: this year feels different. Magical. Maybe he’s imagining it.But every night, why does that one constellation in the sky, the suspiciously moomin-shaped and nameless one, seem to be following him?





	stardrawn creatures

**Author's Note:**

> so in this soulmate au, there's basically a prominent constellation in the night sky that one looks up at and everyone who sees it sees it as a different shape. the shape of...(cue music) THE ONE...  
> okay but seriously i am so excited about this fic, i hope you enjoy! chapter 1 is just Snufkin Going Through It... love my SONs

 

 

He grew up in starlight. A poetic way to look at it, maybe. But Snufkin likes poems very much. 

 

To clarify: he is a small creature, just like the rest of them—Sniffs, Hemulens, Snorks, Mymbles, and of course, Moomins. And everyone knows this: the night sky, with its moons and stars, shines kindly on lost little creatures in the dark. When the sun is down, and the world is sleeping—it may not seem convenient for travel to some, but in his eyes it’s perfect for journeys. 

 

Snufkin has no idea how one travels without being guided by constellations. Even when he traverses in the daylight, he remains guided by both his innate knowledge of the land, earned through years, and his knowledge of how the stars looked the night prior. He taught himself star-navigation as a child, and mastering the art was his earliest ticket to freedom. 

 

Two weeks before the first day of spring, he wakes in a mountain cave, his snow-muddied coat spread on his legs and his old hat over his face. As he stretches, he notes the receding darkness. It’s blue, this early morning light; sort of soft and ethereal around the edges. There are still some stars in the sky right now, as the night slowly fades. His absent, wandering gaze stills at the sight of one particular constellation. 

 

He doesn’t recognise it. He’s never seen it before. But in Snufkin’s hazy, sleep-slow brain, he can almost swear it‘s shaped just like—just like...

 

Surprised both at the constellation and his own sudden surge of longing, he laughs at himself. “Snufkin, you tramp,” he says aloud, breath catching in the mist, “If you miss him so, you’d better hurry along to him, then.”

 

And so he packs up, and begins the descent and eventual climb over the rest of the range. He chalks up the constellation to imagination, whimsy; he’d only barely opened his eyes when he saw it. It had felt like he’d still been dreaming. 

 

The next night, the constellation is up there again, northwest and three fingers high of the horizon. No, this time he’s _definitely_ not imagining it. Fourteen stars, distinctly moomin shaped. They’ve got the snout, the round curve, and even the tail. 

 

“What on heaven’s earth,” he murmurs. 

 

He trusts his own senses too much to call himself crazy, but it’s still, well, a little disconcerting. How can something so distinct appear one day, out of nowhere?

 

It’s there the next night, and the next night, too. Snufkin shakes his head as he looks at it at first, but eventually cannot help a small smile at its sight. How very much like his old, dear friend does it resemble. He looks forward to discussing it with Moomin; perhaps even getting to show it to him himself, if he manages to arrive in synchronisation with Moomin awaking.

 

He realises that in his head, he’s referring to the constellation only as _the constellation_. And well, even if it already probably does have a name somewhere, Snufkin doesn’t know it, and sees no harm in naming it himself. 

 

The little moomin? The _great_ moomin? The big moomin, up in the sky? Moomin major? The moomin-points? He’s never attempted naming something as big as fourteen stars, before. 

 

But eventually, like it’s out of his control and he can’t help it, he settles on just calling it _Moomin_ , like a name, like a companion. 

 

* * *

 

The winter might have been spent in the sunny south, but most of it was spent alone. Solitude is his oldest friend, older still than Moomin, though perhaps not as precious. Snufkin had not really minded his lack of interaction the past months; lazing by himself in gold-lit meadows had been its own reward. The small exchanges of words that one goes through when passing through living dwellings had been enough for him.

 

Perhaps, thinks Snufkin, it is good that it was so. Such previous absence of company makes him feel like a clean slate now; like his heart is ready for an upcoming three seasons spent with good, joyful company. He makes a wry face at himself; anyone else hearing his thoughts would surely think him so ungrateful of company as excellent as the Moomins; and perhaps Snufkin, in his more self-conscious moments, would agree. He’s been more lucky than someone of his nature deserves, he suspects.

 

But still, he is who he is. He won’t change, and life is short, and he’ll treasure what he can get with open arms and a closed fist. His waking life has given him much of beauty, too much to fathom and hold together in his mind; those gifts are beautiful mountains akin to dreamscapes, or rare sightings of dragons, or glimmering, familiarly shaped constellations, or the bright, warm eyes of a beloved friend. A friend so beloved that he accepts Snufkin and his nature. Accepts his wandering with no resentment, instead only something so very much like love.

 

Snufkin refuses to rank those gifts, or consider which of those things feels like the best of all—

 

—perhaps because the answer scares him, because part of him might already know.

 

He walks under the starlight, the constellation watching in silence, and alone, Snufkin lets his heart echo Moomin’s name in its chambers. 

 

He exhales. Whatever he’s on the verge of discovering, realising, whatever it is that he senses—well, he refuses to let it ruin his year, or his time with Moomin. Such feelings can wait, be put off, next to simpler joys like playing his flute by the brook while Moomin laughs, or evading Little My, or helping Moominmamma gather ingredients, or resting in Moomin’s room.

 

_Maybe it won’t be that easy not to think about what your heart feels when you’re right next to him_ , a traitorous little voice in him whispers. _Maybe you won’t be able to hide it. Maybe it will ruin things._

 

Snufkin’s hands tighten around his bag’s straps, pace quickening. Come now, what was all this worry for? Only a few days ago, he’d soaked in the feeling that this year would be magical, special.

 

He simply had to hold onto that intuition, and it would certainly prove itself true. To be cowed down and haunted by worry—there is no point to travelling the world if he was imprisoned by his own self, he knows. He had to not let his worries get the best of him.

 

_Repeat it to yourself_ , he thinks. _This will be a good year, and things will be fine, and Moomin will be waiting for you, and things will be alright._

 

Above him, the moomin-shaped constellation silently seems to nod, impartially, at this.

 

* * *

 

Snufkin’s fully descended from the mountain range that lies a way south of the Lonely Mountains. Now he’s got only forest and relatively flat lands to pass through.

 

His campfire keeps him warm as the snow melts, and as he looks up from his dinner stewing, his gaze alights on the Moomin-stars. 

 

For the first time, he frowns as he looks at them. Not because they’re not beautiful—no, they’re utterly beautiful. But they’re, well…

 

Can stars follow people?

 

Someone else, not as learned in sky-navigation as Snufkin, might indeed have missed it. But at this time of night, and this altitude, and region, well… even for a constellation he’s only recently become acquainted with, he knows it should be many degrees closer to the horizon. It shouldn’t be gaily shining right above him in all its glory.

 

Snufkin knows there are things in this world he can’t understand. But he’s not used to them feeling so unsettlingly personal.

 

So why is this particular constellation following him, or at least making him feel… _hunted_?

 

_Maybe it’s not meant to make me feel hunted_ , he considers. _Maybe it’s kindly. Maybe instead of hunted, I’m being haunted. Watched over._

 

_Loved._

 

But can there ever be a difference between being cherished and being tethered for a stupid, stupid wanderer like him? Even a constellation shaped like a friend following him—something others would find special, wondrous— makes him feel boxed in. And not for the first time, or even the fourth, Snufkin wonders if his nature is unusual for a _reason_. It’s caused frustration to others, but lately it does to himself, too.

 

* * *

 

He meets Teety-Woo five days before the first day of spring.

 

It’s still a relatively cold night.

 

Teety-Woo merrily greets him, easily dropping compliments like hot coal, and curls up at Snufkin’s feet to look up at him adoringly. In exasperation, Snufkin’s torn between the conflicting desires to push the littler creature away with his foot or lean forward to pet him.

 

He ends up doing neither, keeping his eyes fixed on his dinner simmering as it cooks. His pack has a second, smaller bowl; he takes it out for Teety-Woo, who notices and beams.

 

“So,” says Snufkin, trying to broach a conversation topic that doesn’t involve uncomfortably accepting Teety-Woo’s exuberant praise. “Have you any interest in stars?”

 

Teety-Woo cocks his head to the side and considers. “No, but if you want to talk about them, then I’m interested.”

 

“Ah. Alright, it’s actually just—well. I… have you noticed a new, big constellation? In the last week?”

 

Teety-Woo brightens at this. “Oh! Of course! You want to talk about that new fourteen-star constellation, yes?”

 

Snufkin sighs with relief that he isn’t the only one who’s noticed. “Yes, the one shaped like a—,”

 

“Creature just like me,” Teety-Woo says, at the same time Snufkin finishes, “Moomin.”

 

There’s a pause.

 

“What?” Says Snufkin.

 

Teety-Woo digests this. “Maybe there’s two new constellations,” he sagely says.

 

Snufkin takes back his sigh of relief, now. If anything, the proof he might be crazy rather seems to be growing alarmingly.

 

After a long stretch, Teety-Woo ventures timidly, “I can see the new constellation—the one that looks like a creature of my kind, with fourteen stars—just above. What about you?”

 

Snufkin glances up. “I see a moomin-shaped constellation, and nothing that looks like you.”

 

Teety-Woo scratches his head, pondering that. “Oh dear. Oh, dear…,”

 

Snufkin doesn’t want to alarm the little creature or befuddle him further. “Let’s have dinner; it’s ready,” he says, more cheerfully than he feels. Teety-Woo perks up, more than happy to leave talk of such a mystifying subject behind.

 

The next morning, as Teety-Woo bids goodbye to scamper back to his tree-hole house, he says to Snufkin, just as he leaves: “You know, that constellation. Whatever we see, it’s something special.”

 

“I suppose it is,” replies Snufkin, shouldering his pack.

 

Teety-Woo looks urgently in both directions, and then whispers, “I don’t know about your Moomin constellation, but I fell in quite love with the creature in my constellation when I saw her.”

 

That shocks Snufkin to a halt. “Really?”

 

Teety-Woo nods. “She was so beautiful, even as a shape. I feel like I’ll meet her likeness soon, if I’m lucky. My mother was that shape, too.”

 

Snufkin’s mouth is dry. “Ah.”

 

“Anyway,” continues Teety-Woo, smiling at Snufkin with those earnest eyes. “I must be off. I can’t wait to hear of your adventures this summer!”

 

Snufkin manages a half-felt, but kind smile, and waves.

 

* * *

 

And so it is the first morning of spring, and Snufkin’s right on time. The hill above Moominvalley, with Moomin-house in sight, is still flecked with snow, but long whips of grass are sprouting up now. 

 

Snufkin had tried hard not to look at the sky too long the past few nights, or think of how the constellation still seemed to be trailing him. He’d also tried not to think about his, well, his _heart_. And in the midst of all those numerous _try-not-tos_ , he’d felt exhausted. But now, as he sees the familiar blue house with its cozy red roof, all that fatigue—emotional, mental, and physical—fades away, and is replaced by excitement, and anticipation.

 

This year will be a special year. It feels clear in the dewy, morning light, with how everything filters through softer, lovelier.

 

For the first time since the whole of winter’s passing, his lips form that particular name, and his voice makes that name’s noise.

 

“Moomin,” he says. And then says it louder.

 

In the distance, though he couldn’t have possibly heard him, a familiar white head pokes out of the window. Even from all the way away, Snufkin can tell when Moomin sees him. Moomin starts clambering down his ladder with the force of a whirlwind.

 

Snufkin’s grinning so hard his face hurts.

 

“I’m home,” he murmurs, to no one in particular, and then he starts to run down the slope, towards the house.

 

 

 

 

_End of chapter one._

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> thank you so so much for reading and giving this your time!! i'm really grateful. please do comment, once again thank you.  
> 


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